


His is the Song of Ice and Fire

by Cr0wBr0



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Arthur Dayne Lives, Dothraki, F/M, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cr0wBr0/pseuds/Cr0wBr0
Summary: Robert's Rebellion ended with the same result however the pieces fall differently, the Song changes but continues to play nonetheless. An Aemon is again meant for the Throne once again, shall this one take it? The smallest wound can fester and kill the mightiest man, is the same true for the Realm. I guess we both will see where it goes, I guess.
Relationships: Undecided
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. Eddard

**Eddard**

Ned gazed at the stoic, sculpted face standing before him. Traditionally speaking it shouldn’t have even been there, the Crypts of Winterfell was only supposed to house the Kings of Winter, when the North still stood upon its own feet, and the Wardens of the North after. However, Ned couldn’t allow her to be forgotten, by himself or history, especially after all that happened to their family.

Staring into the lifeless stone eyes, Eddard couldn’t help but agree with what his old friend said earlier that day; the statue did little to encapsulate his late sister, but mayhaps that was a feat too large for a sculptor armed with nothing but a hammer, chisel and rock. Although, it wasn’t, solely, his grief that brought him back down to these tunnels. No, it was his need for resolve to do what must be done. The need for him to build the courage to muddle up the values that his late foster father instilled in him to do what’s right for his blood, and to do what’s right for  _ her _ . A secret that he kept for six and ten years now needed to be brought to light before he followed Robert back down south to the Red Keep.

Ned closed his eyes to take a long, deep breath. He slowly released the air in his lungs and focused hardened eyes one last time at the figure of Lyanna before turning stiffly on his heel and walking down the tunnel and up the stairs out of the Crypts. 

Opening the door and looking at Jory Cassel, who was standing guard outside to give Eddard his privacy, who simply nodded at his Lord.

“Jory, call my wife and Robb into my solar. Discreetly if you could, the topic is...sensitive.” Ned had directed as he continued walking. Jory only gave a stiff nod and walked to carry out the order.

Ned wasn’t sitting at his desk long before hearing Catelyn and Robb enter his solar. Peeling his eyes away from the worn and aged piece of parchment below him he saw his wife and son unceremoniously stumble into the chairs across from him. Only then did he realize how late it likely was, obviously losing himself longer than he originally thought while with his sister. 

“What is it Ned? Has something happened?” Catelyn asked, making Ned shake himself out of his thoughts and gather himself in his seat before addressing the issue at hand.

“No Catelyn, nothing has happened, however, in light of my new position as Hand I have decided that I must inform you both of something before I go south with the King.” He paused to figure out how exactly he would continue, looking back down at the lone piece of parchment on his desk. Picking it up, his eyes glossed over the letter he had certainly memorized over the years as he moved to hand it over to his wife.

Catelyn took the parchment, but Ned continued before she had a chance to read the writing on it.“There is more to the story I told about what I found in the Tower of Joy during the rebellion.” That seemed to gather what was left of the attention in the room. It is known that Eddard Stark kept all but the bare minimum to himself about his brief visit to Dorne, for good reason most would gather. With both sets of piercing Tully-blue eyes gazing at him he elaborated.

“When my men and I got to the tower it was already empty. I never dueled with Ser Arthur, there was no battle, in fact, there was nothing to be found throughout the whole tower aside from the head living quarters. I walked into the room at the top of the tower and found nought but a chest sitting at the end of the bed. In it were the remains of Lyanna being preserved as best as possible along with a sword and that letter.” Ned explained, finishing with a point at the letter in Catelyn’s hand.

“If that’s the case, Father, then why lie? Why say you fought and killed Ser Arthur and his men? Was it f--” Before Robb could continue his line of questioning he was interrupted by a gasp from his mother, who looked up from the letter and back at Ned with wide eyes. Robb looked at Catelyn for a second before holding a hand out to read the letter his mother just did in hopes it would answer his questions.

There was a pregnant pause in the room as Robb read the letter himself, Catelyn recovered her wits and Ned formulated how the next half of the conversation would go. Ned could almost follow Robb as he read the letter, the letter he himself has read regularly for many years now.

_ Eddard Stark,  _

_ We’ve received word you are on your way to recover your allegedly kidnapped sister. However, it is my duty to Rhaegar to clear his name to at least you. Lyanna Stark was not kidnapped, Rhaegar intercepted her when she was on her way to Riverrun for her late brother Brandon’s wedding to Catelyn Tully to get her to safety. Aerys had found out her identity as the Knight of the Laughing Tree and wished to execute her for treason against the Crown. Rhaegar and I met her and we made our way to this tower which has been long forgotten to all but my family. Whether it was at the Tourney of Harrenhal or on the way south Lyanna and Rhaegar fell in love, truly. By the time we made it to the God’s Eye the two had declared their love and proclaimed it in front of the Weirwood on the island.  _

_ It saddens me to say that Queen Lyanna passed only days ago and we must leave. It is not safe, not here nor anywhere else in Westeros. Not after what happened to Queen Elia and her children. Lyanna died giving birth to her and Rhaegar’s son and the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. I am leaving to Essos to continue my duty and protect the King, and we shall stay there until the time is right. _

_ All I ask of you, Eddard Stark, is to be ready. Bring Dawn back to my sister, it belongs to my House and will ensure the belief that I am dead. Tell nobody of this, but be ready. Be ready for the return of the rightful ruler of the Realm. If not for the sake of the child, do it for Queen Lyanna. I shall keep him safe for as long as I live, but you must prepare yourself for the return of Aemon Targaryen, First of his Name. _

_ Until our return, _

_ Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, Knight of the Kingsguard _

“Wh--What?” Robb stuttered out as he completed the letter, given the time it took he likely had to read it again to ensure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Ned only gave a solemn nod in confirmation to the letter and his son’s question. 

“I need you both to be ready now as well. I am going south and Starks do not do well outside of the North. If anything were to happen you both need to know this, as it cannot die with me. No matter who sits the Iron Throne, when Aemon returns to Westeros the North shall support him. He is Lyanna’s son, he is blood and he is as much of the North as he is of Old Valyria.” Robb understood instantly, nodding his head in agreement and finding no issue in supporting his lost cousin if and when the time comes. Although, it seemed that Catelyn was apprehensive at the idea. Ned raised an eyebrow at his wife, silently questioning her issue with his proclamation.

“How do we know the boy is still alive? He’s been in Essos over a decade and a half, how can you be so sure he lives?” It was a reasonable concern, Essos isn’t Westeros. Between slavers, sellswords, illness and Dothraki it is very reasonable to assume that any ordinary knight of Westeros would fare poorly in such a strange environment. Well...at least Ser Arthur Dayne is anything but ordinary.

“You needn’t worry about that Catelyn. I’m not sure how, but Arthur has kept in loose contact. I cannot assume that travel of the notes are quick nor direct, but every year or so I get a vague letter that explains little except for the survival of Aemon, with the last being only months ago.” She only nodded in response, eyes going far away and heavy weighed down by the implications of the new circumstances. Ned’s eyes shifted to Robb, who was less in thought about such implications and likely trying to conjure up his newly discovered cousin like he were an imaginary friend that will just appear to him.

“Robb,” he started, his voice holding a sterner tone to demand his son’s attention once again, “you must be ready just as I needed to be. The North will follow you once I go south, and you must be cautious. Once your cousin comes to Westeros, whether the time is tomorrow or a decade from now, there will be war. Robert allowed the death of Rhaegar’s wife, brother and two young children for being nothing more than family to Rhaegar. He and Tywin Lannister will do the same to Aemon even if he returns to be nothing more than a farmhand.” Robb’s gaze hardened as Ned finished his warning, hopefully taking it to heart.

“I shall be ready father, but you know that means you will be revolting against Robert, right? I thought he was a brother to you.” Ned could only take a deep breath after his son pointed out this biggest issue of the whole situation. Luckily, however, he’s had many years to get past his friendship with Robert for his nephew and his sister. Robert isn’t the man he grew up with, nor is he the king he hoped him to be. 

“Robert is a man with many faults, as we all are, but his faults are bigger than most. He started a war that killed thousands based on a lie no matter how reckless my sister and Rhaegar were, he has fathered many bastards only to keep them in the gutter they were conceived in and has done little to rule the Realm outside of appointing Jon Arryn and raising a poor heir in Joffrey. No, my duty is to my sister’s son and the rightful King.” He used to say the same thing to himself regularly, hoping it would dull the guilt of betraying the brother he chose. Now, though, it was the truth. He’s kept his ears open about more than just the state of the North as the years passed, needing to be informed about what his nephew would be welcomed into. The more he listened, the more disappointed he was in the man he helped take the Throne for as Lannisters seemed to run more than Baratheons, smallfolk were no more than vermin and money was thrown away on tourneys and feasts for something as simple as waking up in the morning. A man raised by the best knight to grace Westeros in living memory and one that has fought his way to his birthright is bound to set a better example for a leader.

The conversation lulled in the room as the other two occupants also fell away into their thoughts with Ned. “What about the girl?” His wife called through the silence, eager to gather all the information she could on the subject while they are free to speak on it.  _ Ahh yes, the princess. Another one of Robert’s “triumphs”. _

“She is another reason I shall follow Robert south. I cannot allow Princess Daenerys to wed Joffrey. She’s lived little better than a prisoner in the Red Keep and will be forced to stay there married to a spoiled child not fit for a throne nor marriage.” Being raised in the keep that your family both built and was destroyed in is not a comfortable childhood, nor one fit for a Targaryen princess.

“Do you intend on telling her?” came his wife’s reply.

“Of course, it is her right to know”

“Then what will you do? You can’t hope to just convince Robert to not marry Joffrey to Daenerys, and you can’t just whisk her through the front door of the keep’

“I will do what I must”

In truth he had no plan to deal with Daenerys yet. He needed to be at the Red Keep and figure out how to go about her escape then, it would be impossible to plan for beforehand. But, as sure as he was that Aemon would return to Westeros, he was equally sure he would be able to assist Daenerys in her escape, no matter how it is done.

“Go back to your chambers, both of you. Think on the things said here and get some sleep. It is no easy thing to carry the weight of such a secret.” He took the worn letter from Robb and stuck it back in the drawer of his desk, safely under a stack of many other letters and notes kept out of sight to those who are unaware of its existence.

Catelyn and Robb both nodded and both bid him a goodnight, and he them, though it was likely well into the early morning hours. Ned knew sleep wouldn’t be found easy this night, his mind too focused on a future that he knows could be very far off. Ned walked over to a side table and helped himself to a hearty sum of ale before he strolled off to the godswood, the only place he seemed to find peace at times like these. He dismissed Jory to sleep, as he seemed to already be on his feet, and continued on his own. With so many visitors it could be considered foolish, but with his mind on edge and Ice at his side he felt confident of his own safety, he was sure some harmless animal in the godswood would spook him enough to put it down.

Eddard found the Weirwood tree of Winterfell and took his spot that he has worn in the ground from years of frequent visits. He knelt before the Old Gods, Ice stuck into the ground and held upright by his right hand with his head bowed in deference towards his Gods.  _ Old Gods of the First Men, see to it that my family finds its way through the dark future that lies ahead of us all. That is all I can ask of you. _ As he finished his brief prayer he kept his head down, and continued to long after. He stayed there and let his worries pass through his mind, from his wife and children to his brother upon the Wall and his nephew across the Narrow Sea. The energy of the godswood and the power he tends to feel radiating from the weirwood, feeling as if the Old Gods themselves wish to make an appearance, always brings him to confess all that ails him and all that prevents a full sleep. Ned continues to kneel there until he hears the whisper of the leaves as the wind passes through, the voice of the Old Gods it's said, and once the leaves finish their dance he feels comfortable and relieved enough to stand and retreat to his warm bed and his beautiful wife.

*

The grey eyes of Eddard Stark met the blue eyes of Robb Stark as they said their final goodbye before the new Hand of the King officially took his post. Ned clapped his son’s shoulder before pulling him into a sturdy hug, giving Robb stiff pats to the back as they hold. But before they pull away Ned gives his last private words to his son.

“Be ready and be careful Robb. Whether we like it or not we are part of the game now, it is no longer a southron fancy, it is our life until your cousin returns. One wrong step and we will find ourselves with our ancestors under Winterfell.” With that he pulled back and gave one more affectionate slap on the shoulder. Robb’s eyes hardened with determination and nodded in agreement. 

Ned forced back tears as he turned to leave his family, only bringing Arya and Sansa for experience in politics and a realistic life of a Lady in Westeros (much to Arya’s immense disappointment), as this was the first time leaving his family in such a seemingly permanent manner. Even though he had more time due to Bran’s fall, it never seemed to be enough to make himself feel better about the arrangement.

With those final thoughts Ned turned and mounted his horse to join the King’s entourage that was slowly, oh so slowly, leaving him behind. Ned looked at the expanse of the land around him and continued on to this new road of life. A road of deception, lies and scheming. A road that left only two choices: Death or the Iron Throne.

_ I will do him right Lyanna. It is my oath, my vow and my promise to you that I shall do everything I can for your boy. All hail Aemon Targaryen, First of His Name.. _


	2. Aemon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see what's up on the other side of the Narrow Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a preface I don't truly like how this turned out cause I had to focus on mixing Aemon's past with his present and establish the start of his personality, as well as begin the plot of his story. I know it went straight into a battle but I swear the next couple Aemon chapters will be more chill.
> 
> Also, I didn't look over this too much I kinda rushed a tad as I'm looking at future chapters and needed to get past this. I'll probably post once a week from here on out.

**Aemon**

The loud clangs of steel filled the air, along with miserable heat and kicked up sand of course, as Aemon slashed at the man across from him. Dancing as if he were in a ballad, Aemon was doing his best to stay upright and untouched after a long day of marching and a particularly harsh day of sword training.

“Keep that damn elbow tucked, Aemon” The voice of his “dancing” partner cut through the song of their swords, as well as Aemon’s tired mind, and the man only got a grunt in reply. The blades only met a few more times before Aemon got a foot to the chest and sharp metal lightly meeting his neck.

“You know, when your mentor says something, you’re meant to listen. Almost ten-years of teaching, and yet you can’t keep that elbow down.” The violet eyes of Ser Arthur Dayne stared down at Aemon in annoyed amusement. It was a common look that Aemon saw on his mentor and father-figure’s face, as Aemon made it his job to liven up the knight’s life from time to time.

“My elbow is fine,” Aemon got out. Stiffly, he made his way to his feet, rolling his shoulders and sheathing his blade. “You just always need to have an issue with something, no matter how miniscule.” he finished.

“It’s fundamental form, Aem. Fundamentals a--”

“Yes, yes fundamentals are key. I’m aware Arthur, I promise I’ll keep the elbow in mind, but we both know you’re just mad that I got three on you today.” Aemon interrupted with a chuckle, moving to the rock he and Arthur left their leather vests and sorely shrugged it on, tying its laces that started in the middle of his chest.

Now that they weren’t marching anymore, Aemon and Arthur found no need to spar in their light-plate armor and give themselves a heat stroke. They, instead, left themselves in leather, lower-cut vests that give their chests and torsos room to breath, as well as thin leather breeches. Even then, though, the heat from the setting sun was convincing enough to go without the vests, leaving them only to their breeches and sweat drenched bodies.

“You may have gotten three rounds from me today, but out of seven rounds I believe I still have the upperhand. When you start to feel too cocky, just remember that you lost four times to an old man of four and forty this day.” Arthur gloated. Aemon could practically hear the smile on Arthur’s face behind him as he shook out his wet hair and readjusted the tie that kept the bangs of his hair out of his face and only offered a chuff in response.

Aemon saw Arthur do the same as him in redressing and shaking his hair out. Aemon always joked that Arthur might’ve been the true Targaryen with his Stony Dornishman features of blonde hair and the purple eyes of the Daynes, which definitely resembled Old Valyrians more than Aemon’s dark hair and Stark grey eyes. Arthur never really went along with the jape, thinking of other Targaryens put him in a more reserved mood and left him thinking of a scarred past. 

“Come on, Aem. Let’s rest up for the night, it’s another hard march tomorrow. Unless, of course, Winter decides to roll through Essos tonight.” Arthur suggested with a snort at the end.

Aemon gave the knight a nod and followed Arthur up the slope back to their camp. It was only a few short minutes before they saw the sigils of the Carrion Company and their camp. Flags with a black bird, assumed to be a crow, mounted on a white skull on a red field, the marker of the Carrion sellsword company of Pentos. _ Dining on the Dead  _ were their words, fitting some might say, strange to others. A surprising home for an honorable knight and an exiled royal of Westeros, but one that fit their needs well enough. 

The two made their way through lines of tents and marched closer to the middle of the camp that held a couple thousand fighting men. As they made their way to Aemon’s tent Arthur looked over at him. “I have a meeting with the other commanders, not much more than assuring we’re making good time I am sure. I’ll bring some food back with me on my way back.” Aemon nodded as he stepped into his tent, which was bigger than it should be for a regular soldier but being close to a commander has its benefits, he looked at the pile of furs that cushion the ground and stumbled onto them. 

Aemon rubbed his aching legs as he looked around the tent that he’ll likely only see a few more times after this job. The reason they were with the Carrion Company was because they needed the money. Going to Westeros from Essos wasn’t cheap, especially if they meant to bring some sort of fighting force, but with Arthur being captain for the years he has, and the influence among the men his skills have, has brought much money to the Company and therefore to the duo. 

Thinking of Westeros never got Aemon excited. It never gave him a sense of longing. How could you long for something you haven’t seen, or been? Aemon shook his head before he could think of his parents or half-siblings, of which too harshly answered that question. The only home he’s known was the  _ Lentor hen Jorrāelagon _ , a Pentoshi pleasure house that helped a clueless Arthur take care of a very young prince in exchange for his services as a guard. Aemon was quite fond of that place, especially Jhaini who practically mothered him throughout their time there. When Arthur was standing guard and Jhaini wasn’t working she would tell Aemon stories of Valyrian warriors of old, or sing majestic songs with her beautiful voice. Of course, there were downfalls of living in a brothel that young, but it didn’t really matter to him with Arthur and Jhaini caring for him. The two lived in and around the pleasure house until Aemon was seven and Arthur was able to find work elsewhere, which directly led to their joining of the company.

Thinking back to his time in the brothel seemed to stir emotions with memories, and Aemon looked over to the chest next to his sleeping furs. He leaned over and popped the lid open and grasped the instrument that laid over his clothes. Smoothing his hand over the strings, Aemon was brought into his memories again to the moment Arthur told him of Rhaegar’s almost legendary harp skills, and like most children Aemon jumped at the chance to be like his father. However, it seemed the harp wasn’t the way to go for the prince. The time he spent trying to get a hang on the craft of harp playing seemed to be wasted as he held no gift in it, much to his childhood disappointment. Though, with a good variety of instruments in the pleasure house, from players hired to keep a good “atmosphere” for the clients, Aemon was able to get a feel of other instruments to allow him to cling to that hope of making his late father proud, which gave him significant practice in many instruments before he settled on one. Whether Rhaegar was proud or not Aemon didn’t know, but Arthur always tried to assure him he was.

With his thoughts moving to his father, Aemon’s fingers seemed to move along the strings of the dark wood, well used lute in the same tone his emotions went. The notes falling into a low and somber mood that filled his tent, stretching out into a familiar pattern his muscles knew from frequent practice. Aemon knew only a few written songs, the few that Jhaini would sing to him and helped him eventually play when he would visit in his later years, but for the most part Aemon just listened to the strings he plucked and let his body flow naturally. There were patterns that he knew, but none were written, letting Aemon’s ears and heart lead him along.

As he played Aemon lost track of the time that passed and fell into the flow of his rhythms, but he knew it was more time than expected as he heard his tent flap open and the smell of stew wafted into his nose. He continued playing, but opened his eyes and looked up to Arthur as the knight looked at him in solemn recognition, which was quite common when the lute got brought out. Memories from a scarred past, indeed.

“There were a few different notes in there since I last heard that one. Maybe you should think about bringing parchment along. People may think you simple if you keep playing songs in different tones like that.” Arthur lightly jested as he set their bowls of stew onto the small table and sat in the chair farthest from Aemon so he could still converse with Aemon as he ate. 

Aemon stopped playing for a beat and shook his head. “When music is written it becomes no different than sums, it’s no longer an art. When one sculpts stone or paints a vase they don’t look for a guide of someone else’s work, they make it their own work.” The price set the lute to the side of him on his furs and got up and sat down on the other side of the table to join Arthur in eating.

“So, what’s the lesson today, hmm? Battle strategy? Naming house sigils? Maybe some political situations?” No matter how old Aemon got, Arthur would still drill him with new knowledge the same as he did as a wee child. As a kid, the knight and Jhaini would take turns teaching him as one did their duties throughout the day the other would teach him what they could. Often, it was Arthur that taught the boring things such as sums, writing, minor and major houses along with their politics, while Jhaini taught Essosi lessons and culture, often teaching a form of bastard Valyrian (cause Arthur had little to no recollection of High Valyrian) along with bits of other languages she’s picked up and of course the stories she’s heard from all over. That was one of the benefits of working in a Pentoshi brothel, you get to learn about cultures all around the known world.

“No lessons today, Aem. Tonight, we’ll just enjoy this bountiful meal and talk.” Arthur said with a touch of hesitancy. It was peculiar, both the minor pause to his voice and lack of lesson, but Aemon was sure that Arthur was thinking of the past long gone.

“What do you wish to talk about, then?”

“Home.”

“Jhaini, or the brothel itself?”

“Not the brothel Aemon. Home. Westeros. We need to talk about our plan in heading to Westeros. We have the gold from our work with the company, we have a king that is of age and allies to return to.” Arthur stated firmly, his dark purple eyes piercing into Aemon’s grey ones. There have been few times Arthur has been so serious around Aemon, and the last time it happened a man got dismembered.

“What’s the plan then? How can you be so sure we have allies? It’s been six and ten years, there’s no way to know what state Westeros is in”

“Maybe so, but you discount your name and blood Aemon. There will always be houses that stay true to Targaryens, always. Not to mention the North who will always back up a child of Lyanna Stark, especially when their liege lord is preparing to do just that.” Aemon knew about the letters Arthur would send to his uncle. It was a weird concept still, to have living blood relatives, and hard for him to believe that someone would back him despite never laying eyes upon him. “With the gold we’ve saved up we can gather a few other companies to our side and purchase the ships that we can and sail directly to White Harbor. I can send a letter ahead of time to inform Eddard of our return, and then we can see the Targaryen name back on the Throne.” Arthur finished.

Aemon gave a heavy exhale and leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes. “The Iron Throne… must it truly be me that sits upon it? Who would want the responsibility of seven kingdoms on their back?” The words kind of fell out of his mouth as he thought about the idea of ruling. He was a second son. He was raised in a brothel. Neither born nor raised for it, yet, it was his responsibility, his duty, to govern a realm sitting across the Narrow Sea.

“Your father said much the same to me a long while back. He hated the weight of ruling long before he was asked to bare it, and I’m positive his hair would’ve turned silver long before he died had he not already been born with it. But it was his duty, and he knew that there was no way around it. You have the responsibility to regain the throne he and your grandfather lost. If not for him or the Seven Kingdoms themselves, then we’ll do it for your half-brother and sister, your aunt and uncle all of which suffered for nothing.” Arthur copied Aemon’s actions and leaned back in his chair as well, arms crossing over his chest as he finished his point.

It was a point that couldn’t be avoided. He could easily be selfish and live his life as a no-name sellsword collecting his money, maybe have a special lady next to him, and finally perishing either on the battlefield or from old age. But, in doing so his family would’ve been slaughtered for nought. The rebellion that caused the situation was a good part due to the fact that he’s here, and to forsake the throne would be to put all that death and sacrifice in the dirt.

“Very well,” Aemon sighed. “Let us finish up these last few jobs we have and get on our way home.” Nodding at Arthur, who had acquired a righteous form of determination in his eyes, Aemon got up and stretched his sore legs and discarded his vest to prepare to sleep for the night. Light was still shining outside, but with an early march in the morning and an exhausting day just behind him, Aemon was fully prepared to turn in. 

Arthur gathered the empty bowls of stew and turned to Aemon one last time before leaving. “We’ll be at the village we’re meant to hold in a couple days. When we get there make sure you watch yourself, the best fighters can get killed in a blink of an eye.”

“I know, I don’t plan to die in this miserable heat.” They were a couple days northeast of Selhorys towards a small settlement laying a few leagues off the edge of the Dothraki Sea, and it will only get hotter the closer they get to it. Arthur only nodded his head at Aemon’s dismissive reassurance and walked through the tent flaps, but Aemon caught the look on his father-figure’s face. Laying down onto his furs to sleep, he couldn’t get the haunted look flashing on Arthur’s face. _ Memories from a scarred past indeed,  _ was the last coherent thought in his head before he drifted off.

*

The march was coming to an end and was stumbling upon a disaster. The job was commissioned by Selhorys for the Carrion Company to deal with a Dothraki  _ khalasar  _ that’s been getting too liberal with the lands on the fringes of their sea. The leaders of Selhorys were hoping their company could break, or atleast stall, the  _ khalasar _ before they destroyed all the villages and turned their eyes to the town. Initially, the leadership of Selhorys went to Volantis to help them, as that was their parent city, but Volantis didn’t see the Dothraki as a threat to Selhorys as of yet and cared little for the villages getting pillaged. As they see it, the Dothraki pillaging the cities will be sending their slaves to Volantis to sell anyway, so why waste money and effort to send their soldiers to kill those that will give them more of a labor force?

They saw the village Arthur and the other commanders had expected to make as an outpost to establish a stronghold to defend the village and prevent from being drawn into the field against Dothraki. However, it seems the horse lords had other ideas as there was not much left to the village other than smoke and the newest additions to the _khalasar._ The lines of the sellsword company stood at a halt as Arthur and the other three commanders Mhalik, Joshen and Hacar decided the way to handle the situation. There wasn’t much time to ponder battle strategy, though, as not long after the halt there were Dothraki screamers lining up and preparing to charge against the sellsword battalion. It seemed like not only is the _khalasar_ here early, but they held numbers larger than expected, possibly merging with another _khalasar_ before getting here or just plain misinformation, and with both field and number disadvantages this was going to be a long and bloody day for the Carrion Company.

The company's men were split up into four groups of men, each group 50 men long and 10 deep, and naturally Aemon found himself in Arthur’s group. Arthur was heatedly against Aemon’s choice to join the company, of course. “What use is another dead king?” he’d always argue. Aemon always shrugged off his concerns, rebutting that there was no sane person willing to follow a man hardly grown and gills greener than springtime grass, so Arthur of course allowed Aemon’s participation and was always right by his side.

Arthur walked back to the front of his battalion of men, Aemon just a few rows back, and addressed them all. “It looks like the horse lords are going to join us on their terms, but that doesn’t mean shit anymore. We were hired to chase off these savages, and that’s exactly what we’ll do. In the old days 3000 Unsullied shattered a 50,000 man  _ khalasar _ , and I know you’re no viciously trained eunuchs, but we’re all over 2000 strong of the Carrion Company and we can break 10,000 undisciplined nomads. Now line up you bastards and prepare yourselves for a fight.” he had yelled to the group. In reality, Aemon wasn’t too positive that Arthur’s “inspiring” words made it all the way to the back, but enough people understood as every man in the battalion, not quite in unison, dropped stance with their spear and shield at the ready, followed soon by the other battalions to the left and right of Aemon’s, which sat in the right-center position looking upon the burning village.

In groups as these the shield and spear combo were quite common in Essos. Arthur taught Aemon Westerosi warfare along with what he knew of Essosi commonplace, and to be honest Aemon wished this was war across the sea. He was formidable with shield and spear, but longsword was his weapon of choice and was much more confident with it.

Soon after the speech of the Westerosi knight, the  _ khalasar  _ ahead of them started to go on the move, a semi-forced line of screamers charging full force and the Carrion spear line. Aemon took a deep, settling breath to try and edge off the nerves as he positioned his spear to stick through the shields of the line in front of him keeping a stout defence for the charging Dothraki. Arthur had assimilated himself right behind the forthmost line, which in itself made Aemon more nervous for Arthur more than himself, but held a longsword in hand next to his shield rather than a spear. A Dornishman and The Sword of the Morning he might’ve been, but with a spear he was no more than fodder it seemed.

The battalion to the left of Aemon’s got contact first, spear and horse colliding in a bloody mess, and the other three battalions followed soon after. This first wave of Dothraki stretched along the entire line of the Carrion Company, but it wasn’t stacked deep, only one or two horses behind the first and none in any kind of formation, just a mass of horses and men. When the first horse hit the front of Aemon’s battalion he saw the spear stab through the chest of the charging beast and pushing back the front man and few behind, but the line held, the man on top of the horse, who was attempting to scalp the first man he could, only managed to fly off his halted horse and flew in the the group of men and was promptly dealt with by a man to Aemon’s right.

After the first contact the whole front line got stuttered back, and the following line of spears took a firm step forward to close any gaps of the spears. Aemon took his step and very quickly had to brace himself as a horse trampled a man two roms in front of him and soon enough a horse shoulder met Aemon’s spear tip and threatened to push him over. The screamer atop the horse decapitated the man to his spears right and threatened to move on to him, however Aemon moved deftly and retracted his spear and replaced it into the gut of the Dothraki, removing him as a threat and watched the horse fall over and be put out of its misery. 

The first wave started and ended quickly, but the rumbling of hooves on the ground never ceased as a second wave of Dothraki were already trudging through the field. The battalion took no time to recover its formation and stayed waiting on the horse lord’s advance. This wave was more dense than before, punching through deeper and more consistently. Carrions getting trampled, beheaded and dismembered but holding firm as can be. Aemon keeps his eyes up and his feet nimble, occasionally sidestepping or throwing his shield up to keep from getting sliced up himself and keeping his spear on a short and quick leash. Never overextending himself and allowing himself to stab, retract and stab again bring down man and steed alike.

It took only a few waves in quick succession to place Aemon side by side with Arthur, both covered in blood, mud and sweat exhaling quick breaths with only adrenaline and the will to live keeping them sharp. Aemon took the brief break in clashing to look at the state of their small army and it wasn’t great. Everyone beat up, everyone tired and everyone realizing that this likely won’t have the best ending. The biggest wave yet was stomping burn marks into the ground as they raced to meet the sellswords, stretching far past the edges of their army clearly attempting to just surround the company and eliminate them. There was a faint call of orders and a shift of men to adjust to the new circumstance, but whatever the adjustment was Aemon couldn’t be bothered with it quite yet. 

The horse lord ahead of Aemon was approaching quickly, he lowered his stance to catch the force as best as possible. As the collision was about to be made, Aemon sidestepped to the left a bit and caught the horse at an angle. The force moved him backwards into the lines behind him, swallowing himself and the trailing horses into the men, making a clutter of bodies and mayhem. 

With his spear being ripped from his grip, Aemon unsheathed his sword and looked at the taller and darker-skinned man directly in front of him, who raised his own curved  _ arakh _ , and moved to engage. The screamer lived up to the name and let out a yell and charged at him, and attempted to impose his will on the first slash against Aemon. A vicious downward strike was met with equal ferocity by Aemon, and when the taller man slashed downward again Aemon met it with his shield this time, letting the  _ arakh  _ bounce off and quickly with a strike of his own. Though big in stature, the Dothraki was nimble enough to step back and let Aemon’s blade only scratch a bit at his chest and quickly followed up again. The exchange lasted a few more strikes before Aemon caught the other man off balance and quickly relieved the other man of his arm and then his head. 

Aemon continued just like that. Slicing legs of passing horses, ducking under swipes of the riders or raising a shield to clatter against them, and cutting down unhorsed enemies. Meeting up with Arthur in the fray and fought side by side, back to back and just surviving. Their men got cut down and ran through slowly but surely, lines only able to hold for so long and things quite obviously looking quite sour.

As the battle came to a close, the few stragglers finished up by the Dothraki, but Aemon and Arthur weren’t willing to let it happen to themselves. No group of horse lords were uniform enough to cut through the dance of Arthur and Aemon. Truthfully, many were just watching as one rider got the confidence to fight one of them, turning the whole thing into more of a sick fighting pit that was slowly filling up with Dothraki bodies. As it kept going less and less men took the bait and kept a distance until a man came up slowly on a horse.

The man looked upon the tired forms of Arthur and Aemon with eyes rounder than his Dothraki brethren, skin a lighter tint and hair wilder and less confined to its braids unlike the others. It made Aemon believe the man was not truly Dothraki until the man spoke up. “You Westerosi fight well with those straight swords, none of the other Dothraki wish to fight you with risk of losing their braid or their heads.” he had said with a thick accent that proved he was, indeed, Dothraki. “Drop your swords and you will live.” he finished with a hard look.

Arthur and Aemon looked to each other with grim acceptance. They knew they couldn’t fight through the rest of the group around them and much less the whole  _ khalasar,  _ so with reluctant sighs they dropped their swords and shields looking back up at the man that previously spoke.

The man smiled widely at them. “Well, at least you are smart Westerosi.” he stated as he dropped off his horse and grabbed two ropes from his saddle and walked over to bind their hands.”My name is Jarahko, and I’ll be bringing you to Khal Overro. Do not worry, I’ll speak for you and convince him to sell you to the fighting pits and those Masters will give us more for you than all the other slaves from that shit town.” It was a bizarre experience hearing the thick accent speak so well in the Common Tongue. 

After the man, Jarahko, tied their wrists the two were hauled onto horses by several men around them who also picked up their weapons. They were led to the village that had been sacked and a pit formed into Aemon’s stomach.

_ From brothel boy to warrior to slave, yet, a king in name. _ He looked up at the beating sun that looked like it was making its descent and gave it a somber smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb POV right after Catelyn dips out, kinda dry not gonna lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed this one out first. I'm not sure why, but I felt I needed to get this weird transitionary chapter that is bringing the plot of Winterfell into truly AU territory, but doing it softly by introducing certain details. The next two chapters will be in the Red Keep, which I am looking forward to, and then back to Essos, which is actually exciting for what I want to happen there. It's short, it's neutral at most in my mind but here we are.

**Robb**

Not even a fortnight as acting Lord of Winterfell and Robb already felt the weight of the title and responsibility resting upon his shoulders. His father left barely over a sennight ago, and his mother merely the day before last. All of the responsibility of the Warden of the North was given to Robb and his only remaining advisor Maester Luwin, while Lady Catelyn and Ser Rodrik Cassel journeyed towards King’s Landing to get to the bottom of the dagger that was meant for little Bran’s throat.

Everything was a jumbled mess at this point. A crippled and still unwaking little brother, a possible Lannister conspiracy, a journeying Lady Mother, a Lord Father stuck in the middle of everything and a secret that, if fate so chooses, that could rip the Seven Kingdoms asunder. But, despite all these things buzzing around Robb’s head it was his duty to focus on the North first, so he got up from the desk in his father’s solar, not yet comfortable with it being his solar, and made his way to the Great Hall where Maester Luwin was already waiting for Robb to start the day’s partitions.

There were no pressing matters brought to attention, nothing more than feuding between farmfolk or requests for builders to come by a town, nothing to draw hard attention as all was well in the North. After the last partitioner Maester Luwin dismissed himself to check on Bran, which Robb was quick to follow. Now that their mother was gone, Robb made sure to keep a keen eye on Bran in her place, maybe not as keen as Lady Catelyn’s, to ensure that if there were any complications that sprung up Robb wouldn’t be far behind on any uptake.

Robb and Maester Luwin made their way up to Bran’s room and entered the same scene that greeted them for almost a moon now. A slowly thinning visage of Bran still motionless on the bed aside for the gentle breathing that ran through his chest. Laying right beside Bran was the grey and swiftly growing form of Bran’s still nameless direwolf who only left the room to relieve himself, eat and to give a passing greeting to Grey Wind and Shaggydog, keeping to stand, sit or lay vigil for little Brandon.

“Any change in him, maester?”

“No, but I fear for his body still. He cannot live long term with nothing but honey and water. He needs to wake up to keep his body from failing in nutrients, not his injury.”

Robb frowned deeply at that, looking upon the broken form of Bran and waking to stand over him, clearing his forehead of the locks that have grown throughout his slumber, and placed a kiss on his little brother’s forehead.

“I know you’ve been asked countless times before, but are you sure there’s nothing more that can be done?”

“The only thing we can do is keep giving him honeyed-water for nutrients and wait for him to wake. His body has been through much, we must wait for it to recover as it can until he wakes.” Luwin said somberly as he moved to drip the mixed drink into Bran’s mouth. “It could take a day, a fortnight or a moon still, hopefully it is sooner and not later, but it is impossible to know.” 

Robb could only nod and stepped away from the bed, leaving the maester to do the usual check ups on his brother and returning to his father’s solar to think for a bit. Sitting back down at the desk, Robb looked down at the empty tabletop for a second before his eyes drifted to one of its drawers. Sighing to himself, Robb opened the drawer and grabbed two pieces of parchment and displayed them on the table. One, of course, being the infamous letter shown to him almost a moon ago, and the other is one that Lord Stark wrote for him before he left with the King south. The only thing on the letter was six names:

_ Howland Reed _

_ William Dustin _

_ Ethan Glover _

_ Theo Wull _

_ Mark Ryswell _ __

The names of all those that went to the Tower of Joy during the rebellion, and the names of those who are also in the know of the King across the Narrow Sea. His Lord Father had entrusted Robb to be prepared, so what better way to do so than to converse with those that were there? Robb quickly wrote up five letters to be sent out requesting the presence of the five northmen and had Maester Luwin see them out. It would take a few sennights for all the men to get to Winterfell, and until they did all there was for Robb to do was his daily duties as Lord, keeping an eye on Bran’s condition and train with Theon in the yard.

*

Three days have passed since Robb asked the men his father had written down to come to Winterfell, and currently he and Theon were sparring at the behest of Hallis Mollen. Hallis Mollen was a sword sworn to the Lord of Winterfell who took up the duty of household guard when Jory Cassel left with Lord Stark to King’s Landing, he was a fairly tall man with broad shoulders and muscled body, as to be expected from a fighter, long dark hair that flowed a bit past his shoulders and a squarish brown beard. The man was a weird shift from Ser Rodrik. Where Ser Rodrik was strict and unyielding, Hallis was more laid back and spoke with more jest than command, giving a strange condescending air to the sparring session., When Robb or Theon made an obvious mistake, Ser Rodrik would always interrupt with a stern voice and an occasional slap on whatever limb was making a mistake, where as Hallis would let the boys continue, but would shoot off a comment such as “A drunk man missing a foot has better footwork than that” or “A women after childbirth can swing a sword truer than that”. Hallis would allow the fighting to go one until the boys were sucking in breaths as if they were held underwater like the followers of the Drowned God. Only when the two separated did the man explain their mistakes with any specifics. “You can’t stop a fight in the middle to fix your bloody form. You survive the fight and learn how to swing the sword correctly.” Was his reply to their questioning of his teaching methods.

Theon and Robb were exchanging blows with each other, Robb holding a clear advantage as usual, and Hallis was shouting his usual, well more unusual than anything, but they were abruptly stopped with a shout across the yard. “My Lord! My Lord! The Maester needs to see you in Lord Bran’s chambers immediately!” A frazzled looking serving girl came down out of breath and face flushed in exertion from running through the keep.

In an instant, Robb threw away his wooden sparring sword and sprinted through where the serving girl came from racing through the keep. He was bursting into his little brother’s room mere moments later and saw Bran sitting up in his bed for the first time in a moon with his grey direwolf nosing his hand as Luwin was inspecting Bran and asking questions that seemed to flow in and out of his ears. Taking a second to collect himself to not bombard his brother so soon, Robb got to see Bran’s pale complexion and haunted eyes, as if he’d seen some terrible monster in his sleep. 

“Bran, are you alright? How are you feeling?”

“Hungry and tired.” Was the only reply, his voice containing as much exhaustion as his face despite the amount of rest he has gotten over the past moon. 

“I have already asked a servant to bring you food Bran, and you mustn’t sleep until I have ensured your health.”

“I can’t walk, Maester. What more do you need to know?” When Robb heard Bran confirm the warning Luwin had given him repeatedly made his heart break. Walking to Bran’s side, Robb looked upon Bran’s body, letting his eyes linger on the unmoved and untouched legs neatly kept within the blankets. Robb moved opposite of Maester Luwin and took the spot next to the direwolf and bent down to grasp his brother. “I’m happy you’re alive Bran, you gave us all a good scare.”

“I can’t even remember what happened. I was on the gargoyle and then I fell, but I never fall Robb.” His voice was so full of melancholy Robb could feel Bran’s sadness and confusion, but there was nothing he could do but be there for his brother.

“It is natural to not remember what happened in the fall, your brain went through a lot of trauma my Lord. It may come in time, but you’ll need to be patient”

“Be patient for what? I’m a cripple. There’s nothing to wait for besides a servant to bring me food and night come to fall asleep.” Bran rebutted Luwin solemnly and with heat in his voice. The voice of a boy who had his dreams stripped from him far too swiftly. Before the fall Bran was meant to be a knight of the Kingsguard, their father even intending to have Bran join them south allowing him to be around the Kingsguard permanently. But as Bran said, no matter how terrible to think about, he won’t be able to walk again, which effectively exempts him from knightship.

“It will be hard Bran, there is no question in that, but you will need to be strong. While Father is Hand I am acting Lord and you are the next in line, there are many that aren’t as fortunate as you. A smallfolk boy that loses his legs would’ve been left for dead. You will continue with your studies and learn the manners of a Lord, cripple or not.” No matter how heartbroken he was for his brother Robb had to make sure his brother didn’t go down this path already. There will be an adjustment period for him to get used to his life without legs, but he will not have a Stark son act as if he were nothing when even as a broken boy he held more in his life than most others, and he needed Bran to understand it.

Bran could only nod at his brother’s words, likely thinking them harsh and mean, shifting his eyes back down to the direwolf next to them. “I named him Summer.” He said with a far off smile. Robb knew there was more to the name than a mere season, but to what it meant Robb had no clue. “It is a perfect name, Brother.” Robb scruffed Summer’s and Bran’s heads at the same time.

“I will leave you to your duties, Maester. I’ll expect us all to eat together tonight and we can fill in Bran on everything that he’s missed.” Robb nodded his head at the Maester and walked out to rejoin Theon and Hallis in the training yard.

  
  


*

Life flowed as it always did. Robb did his Lordly duties, trained in the yard and tried his best to keep Bran’s head up. But, the normal that got accrued through the weeks couldn’t last, not for much longer than a minute. Horns blew as Robb, Rickon and their direwolves stood at attention while horses of the first lord came through the gate, though it wasn’t the one Robb had expected. Although they were the farthest house that was contacted, the black lizard-lion on a green field of House Reed came marching through the gates of Winterfell lead by a short man with greying scraggly brown hair and mysterious forest green eyes, standing shorter than most with two quite similar looking children flanking the crannogman.

“Lord Reed, thank you for accepting my invitation. It is an honor to host an old friend of my father.” Robb said his pleasantries with a small nod at the Lord of Greywater.

“The honor is mine, my young Lord. I have to say I have been expecting this day for quite awhile.” Dark green eyes showing nothing but mystique, but they were beaten by the piercing eyes of the young boy next to Lord Reed, who was almost definitely his son.

_ It’s like he’s looking at me and through me at the same time. _ Falling to his own discomfort, Robb turned to glance behind him and saw his brother, who was on the back of Hodor, looking upon the gathering. Looking back at the boy and noticing how fixated the boy was with his brother only getting more uncomfortable.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, this is the first time I'm writing anything in a storytelling format. I can write essays well enough, but this is a different monster. This idea kinda just sprung up and I already knew how to start it with other aspects of the beginning, however I won't lie and say I know where this will go long term plot wise.
> 
> I'm always down for critiques. However, do NOT just compliment and/or insult. If you like something I did explain what and why, I like feedback. If you hate something about the writing don't write "This is shit." Please say "This is shit, because..."
> 
> One of those let's me know how to fix myself, my feelings won't get hurt if I really am shit at writing. So if you liked it I'm sorry to say that a legit schedule is not possible. I am in my first semester in college, so free time comes and goes, same with decent ideas unfortunately. That being said, the fact that I actually posted this shit it will be likely I'll be on it for some time still.
> 
> Also, the next chapter we shall shift across much land and will likely be much longer. This was dipping the toe in the water and getting a feel for the temp.


End file.
